


Retrace our petal steps

by EnlacingLines



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Post-Canon, alternative post canon, alternative post season 8, where no one died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnlacingLines/pseuds/EnlacingLines
Summary: Keith gapes, trying to comprehend what they are saying.“Are you telling me there were flowers growing out of my lungs?” he says, bewildered.“Yes. Quite literally. But the good news is we were able to operate, and now your lungs are clear. There seems to be no trace of anything left, we removed it all.”A Klance hanahaki AU





	Retrace our petal steps

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, this is a long one. I had a craving for some angst, and what better way than a hanahaki AU?
> 
> All the love to the wonderful stormie2817 for betaing this monster! And for generally being so supportive and lovely with this story. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy reading!

He stands on a midnight blue field watching dawn or sunset, it’s hard to tell which. With the light either dying or waking, the world is stained violet, a shade of shadow attached to the deep blues. His legs feel heavy, although he stands still, like he’s run for miles, chasing or escaping. 

He’s aware this is a dream. Aware in the way the twisting blue-black grassy surface beneath him shimmers, waves uniformly in a manner that is impossible. But waking seems more of a dream than this place; a sequence too much for him to bear. 

_“Sometimes though, I think it will never be right.”_

The words are whispered by the wind through the long grass and he falls headfirst, a slow descent into their softness. He doesn’t stop, though. There is no ground beneath him. His eyes stay open, and, as he slips into the softness of blue, the grass changes. It flies up, he feels it brush against his face, tickling like the touch of feathers. In an instant, they become thousands of tiny petals, swirling in circles, a barrier around his eyes. They fall with him, these petals, bright against the dark, shifting in hues as he falls. They start purple as the lighting of this dreamworld, then a blood red crimson, an unearthly blue that can only exist in dreams, then black. So black, they almost look like nothing, until, slowly, the world dissolves as the petals fall. 

* * *

When he wakes, at first he’s sure it’s a sequel to the dream. There’s pain, a blistering agony so consuming, he can’t even identify where it’s from. His eyes take three tries to open, glued shut and heavy, so heavy as if his body is anchored down in sleep. 

The first thing he sees when they open are wires. And then the second thing he does is panic. 

Adrenaline has power and he’s sitting in an instant, despite his heavy body. The wires are stuck in his left arm, needles in skin attached to ringing, beeping machines. Their sounds increase as he rocks up, forcing his right arm over to pull out the tubes marring his skin. 

_They’ll come. Galra._

He doesn't know what that means but it’s enough to allow his right arm strength to rip the wires from his body, ceasing the noise abruptly. Blood spurts from the wounds but he knows that this is nothing, knows he has suffered much worse. Part of him thinks that thought is telling in itself but he ignores it, has better things to do right now, such as escaping the clutches of whoever has him bound by blood to machines. 

He feels no pain from the fresh wounds even as blood courses from his arm. The agony stemming from somewhere else in his body is too much to feel anything new. He turns, realising he is up high on a bed and swings his legs down to touch the floor. His feet are bare, he is covered by a white robe, and shudders to himself as he stands, slower than he’d like, having no clue how he came to be like this. 

There’s still a wire attached, leading before him as he takes his first step. He notices the floor is cold, a muted grey colour now speckled with blood. The whole room that he can now see is in shades of paleness; a light ugly green colour for the walls, the bed sheets he’s just thrown off creamy and white. It’s...standard issue, repetitive and corporate but the nicest captivity he’s ever been in. 

Another thought to not decipher. It also seems familiar, as if he’s walked this dream before. 

All his perceptions are returning abstractly, his mind trying to take in surroundings, feelings, and mix them together into cohesiveness while he still tries to escape. He hears muffled noises, voices rising and perhaps footsteps. He looks up and sees only one door in the direction of the sounds. Not ideal, especially when he is as weak as he seems, mind only half formed from dreaming. 

With looking up, his head strains and the remaining wire comes with it. In an instant, his hands come up to his face as he stumbles forward three more steps to the door, the wire pulling taut. It’s a mask. It covers his mouth up to his nose, molded well onto his face so it provides little impression or discomfort. The wire leads to something behind him, something they’re obviously forcing him to breathe. 

That thought is enough to have his fingers scrambling for the edges, nails scraping along skin until his shaking hands find a way to creep under the mask and tip it upwards before he can rip it off his face. As it clatters to the floor, two things happen. 

Firstly, the door to the room bursts open. Secondly, he stops being able to breathe. 

The unidentified pain comes to life at a higher magnitude, making itself known clearly now where it’s from. It begins in his chest, but rises, acid bubbling to the surface and spills upwards into his throat, scalding and tearing it’s way through it's path. He tries to inhale desperately, but it’s just burning air, adding fuel to the pain which rises and incinerates.

He drops to his knees, hands scrambling at his throat, trying to do something to gain more air, to stop the pain that will not cease as it climbs through his airways. Three people enter the room, their shoes all he can see, boots of different sizes and a cacophony of voices all shouting in the same moment. 

His vision blurs, his throat convulses, he cannot speak. There’s no mechanism for that, all he can do is try and pant in painful gasps, each inhale a new blistering surge of flaming pain that cannot be countered. 

“Keith! Keith, calm down, it’s okay!” 

A person in front of him, holding onto his hands, preventing him from grabbing at his own throat. His vision is wavering, his senses dulling again, and he knows he’s about to pass out. The heaviness of his body is dragging him downwards and his mind yearns to hide from this pain so brutal and bright. 

The man’s eyes are terrified behind his glasses, his grip on one of Keith’s hands warm and stable, the other cold and strong. His hair is white, so white it blends with the muted room and Keith knows him and does not, just like he’s discovered his own name and knows it’s his. 

_It hurts. Help me. It hurts._

He tries to speak again but there’s nothing left. He thinks he hears a woman yelling for a doctor as he passes out, with the white haired man still holding him steady as he does. 

* * *

This time he does not dream of petals and suns, in purple shades and strange words of little but all meaning. It’s just dark with an afterthought of pain, that discomfort from his chest and throat making its way into his unconscious mind. 

He senses movement, as if he’s in a glass room looking out, but his vision remains dark. He gets the vague idea this darkness is purposeful, artificial but somehow healing. For his mind seems to be reconnecting, fishing through thoughts and wiring back to life. 

Mostly, though, he allows himself to drift, sail away on nothingness while he has the chance. For he is aware that when this ends, he will have to face that pain again, that burning that tore him apart from the inside out. 

* * *

It’s easier for Keith to wake the second time. He blinks and his eyelids obey, clearing his vision and allowing it to swim into focus. He’s still in the muted room, and this time his mind recalls that it's obviously a hospital. The beeping machines remain, and he turns to see them once again hooked up to his arm, with a bandage also in place from where he’d ripped them out. He can’t feel any pain from there, and wonders how much time has passed as he turns back. 

His mask is on again. Cautiously, he inhales once, feeling his chest expand as he does. A shiver of pain emanates at the action, but it’s far less than before and only in his chest. It is obviously easing, and helped by whatever he is inhaling, so Keith doesn’t remove the mask this time. He definitely does not want to experience that pain again. 

“You’re awake.” 

Keith turns to his other side, and smiles behind the mask as he sees Shiro sitting by his bedside, book in hand. He recognises his brother now, although he does look different from Keith’s memories; older, far older and-

Is his arm _floating?_

Keith has to blink several times to confirm that yes, his brother now has a floating arm. It looks bizarre, but Keith is also aware that in the recesses of his mind he knows about all of these changes and developments which have happened to Shiro. It’s an eerie feeling. He obviously has some memory loss, but it’s like it’s all locked away behind a barrier, just waiting for Keith to knock it down, brick by brick. 

“You should be able to talk by now, so take it slowly. The swelling in your throat has almost gone.” 

Keith hesitates for a second, remembering the incredible pain the last time he’d tried, but he trusts Shiro. Has always done so, but now it’s deeper than when he was a teen, drawn into his bones and part of his strongest feelings. He’d always trust Shiro to guide him, so he slowly removes the mask away, just moving it to the side at first, taking a small breath. 

No pain. It’s hard to breath, but more like he’s seconds across the finish line after a race than as if something had charred away the inside of his throat. His chest constricts though with each breath and he knows he’ll need the mask again soon. 

He swallows, it burning a little as if he’s been sick recently, and tries to speak. 

“Shiro...I’m in the hospital?” 

His voice sounds ragged as if he’s been screaming for hours on end, a rough and deeper tone than he’s used to. Shiro smiles with a nod, and leans forward. 

“Yes, you’ve been here for nearly two weeks. Looks like your memories are returning. You didn’t recognise me the first couple of times you woke up.” 

Ah, so that time before was not the first time. Keith nods slowly, swallowing again. His throat feels dry, crisp and raw. 

“I know you. But I think there’s bits...missing. I have some memories. It’s all...strange. Your arm floats,” he says, still a little mystified by that. 

Shiro laughs, almost snorting as he does. 

“What’s one of your clearer memories? The doctors didn’t anticipate this, but they think it’s temporary,” Shiro says, a kind tone to his words meant to relax and soothe. Keith knows it well, and is grateful he does. 

He closes his eyes and thinks back, allowing the memories to fill him, arrange themselves in an order he can articulate. 

“You went to Kerberos...they told me you were dead, but I found you. I remember fighting…”

All of a sudden it blurs, and Keith frowns at the strange sensation. As it does, there’s a tickle in his throat and he coughs, a deep heavy sound that pulls the ache in his chest upwards. Keith sits up, deciding this will ease it. Shiro helps balance him and he finishes spluttering into his hand. He groans as it ends, and a glass of water is passed to him by a floating arm. He smiles, takes it grateful and drinks, the cool water immediately easing the burn. 

“Thank you. Umm…” 

He trails off trying to reestablish his line of thinking. He decides to see if he can skip past rescuing Shiro, if there’s anything before it. His mind brings him fragments; a rush of piloting, chasing down an enemy in the midst of space, a voice in his head growling of all things, a sword in his hand-

“Voltron!” he says, an exclamation as he turns to Shiro. 

Shiro looks almost relieved at that. “Yes, we were the Paladins of Voltron. I’m glad you remember that. Can you tell me-” 

He’s cut off though by a knock at the door, followed by a woman in a white coat entering, the classic doctor uniform. She smiles widely, her dark eyes taking in the scene. 

“Good to see you awake and talking, Mr. Kogane. How are you feeling?” 

“My chest hurts. Throat is okay now though,” Keith says, voice still rough. 

The doctor nods, noting his words on the screen in her hands. 

“That’s excellent news. We’ll do a few tests today to see how your healing is coming along now that you’re awake. We’ll start you on a new course of medication as well, and please keep drinking water throughout the day. Your voice still sounds painful, so I’d keep the mask on when you aren’t talking. There’s a mild sedative in there, which should be helping your throat recover.” 

Keith nods, taking another sip of the water as if to prove he’s following instructions. 

“And how is your memory? The last time I saw you, you were having difficulties, but it seems as if this is improving.” 

Keith nods. “It’s still...hard. I know Shiro now. I can remember some things. It feels like it’s all there though…” he trails off, not sure how to express the feeling especially when speaking is difficult. 

However, the doctor just smiles encouragingly. “That’s good! It’s what we expected, actually. We believe you had an adverse reaction to medication, which can cause temporary memory loss in rare cases. With gentle stimulation, it should all return in a few weeks.” 

A reaction to medication makes sense to Keith, seeing as his chest and throat were the source of pain, rather than his head, ruling out an injury there. But he is still none the wiser, he realises, in understanding why he’s here. 

“What happened to me?” he says, the question growing in urgency now that he’s more aware of the symptoms and less muddled up in pain. 

The doctor gives him another smile, all professionalism and secrecy. 

“We’ll discuss that after your tests. Best to have the latest information before we talk about that.” 

Her tone leaves no room for argument, although Keith is sorely tempted. However, he’s soon bustled across the hospital for x-rays, scans, and blood testing; all of which drain him more than he thought possible. The mask is soothing though, keeping the problems in his chest and throat at bay. 

As machines whir around him, he tries to sort his thoughts. Although he’s still a little vague on how and when Shiro gained a floating arm, he does recall the dark metal of the Galra one, shuddering a little as he does. His memories of Shiro fluctuate in and out; deep, tearing sadness, loss and elation. All connected intricately with Voltron. 

Voltron. A huge...entity made up of smaller lion robots, one of which he flew. His memories of which are hazy, and melt into one another; first Red, the guardian of fire and bursting with the need to spearhead every battle, to be fast and quick to the finish, blasting through their enemies without a second thought. Then it fades to Black, the leader. The head of Voltron, driving their team forward, taking the brunt of the decision-making and being the steady resolve they needed. 

The distance between the two seems gaping, but he can feel both within him. He must have changed team positions. But who had taken Red in his stead? However, his body tires at the moment, giving him a spasm of coughing while having blood taken. He grimaces as they reset the needle, looking away as it breaches the skin. He recalls then many times being injured--broken bones, cuts, concussions--throughout his time in space, a blur of fighting a war. But for some reason, actively giving up his blood seems to make him queasy. 

As a distraction, he decides to stop going back to the far past and tries to remember what caused this problem in the first place. Strangely, this seems far easier for his mind, perhaps as it was a more recent event. He sees himself standing alone in a vast valley, stretching onwards and up, thousands of tiny rocks, charred earth, and coloured sands rising in the distance. A volcano, his mind supplies, he’s standing in a huge crater where an eruption had spread through, leaving behind the soft remains and clusters of now cold lava beneath his feet. 

There was nothing left. Nature had taken out this place long ago, not a soul to be seen. There were remnants in the city below, preserved houses in various stages of collapse, barren and charred trees which had stopped growing. They’d found records in an unknown language inside the buildings, which they’d taken in hopes of learning more of this planet’s fate. 

And corpses. Huddled, all small in positions where they had been morbidly preserved by the disaster, not being able to escape, signalling the swiftness of the eruption. 

“Keith, we’re heading back!” 

A familiar voice in his mind, and he turned back to see his someone else, standing tall in their...in _her_ black and purple uniform. He remembers himself strolling back, keen to be gone from this dead place where they’d been years, decades, too late to save. As he crossed the lava path, he noticed something white, standing out amidst the grey and black setting. He hadn’t noticed in on his way there. Confused, he turned, seeing a patch of something different among the uniformity. He strays from the path, calls something to his-

“Mum,” he whispers to himself, the memory halting. 

All of a sudden it floods back; The Blade of Marmora, of tracing his path back from just a symbol on his knife to a movement, an existence built on fighting the Galra, on rebelling against a power so dark and hungry, it seemed futile. His mother, the person he’d missed so much growing up, had wondered about for so long, suddenly in his life. Their two years together relearning and redefining their relationship. The progress they’d made since, his family expanding ever more as he grows. 

“All done, Mr Kogane. We’ll go back to your room now.” 

The nurse smiles, three vials of blood now taken, and Keith manages a wavering smile in reply. He replaces the mask as he’s taken back in a wheelchair, feeling a little bit feeble as he does, embarrassment rising. 

Shiro is there still, even though Keith must have been gone for a large portion of the day. Despite his and the nurse’s protesting, Keith makes it back to bed on his own, grateful to stretch his legs as he does. The mask stays on his face, the container of both the sedative and oxygen quickly moved to attach to an area by the bed. Keith inhales deeply a few times as the nurse leaves, then takes it off to speak to Shiro. 

“Is my mum around?” 

Shiro looks pleased at the question. “She’s staying nearby. I called her while you were having tests. We’ve been taking it in turns for the past few weeks to watch over you. Assuming the doctor says you can have more visitors, she’ll be here tomorrow.” 

Keith relaxes against the pillows, feeling his whole body unclench. 

“She was here, last time I woke up. As were you and...Adam?” he says, the images flickering to life as he recognises the faces of those who ran into his room as he collapsed under the weight of his own lungs. 

“Another person who’d like to see you. In fact, there’s a long list. I’ve told everyone you’re awake now, so I’m sure they’ll be queuing up to visit,” he says with a smile. 

Keith still isn’t entirely sure who ‘everyone’ might be, but even as he says that, flashes crash through his mind. Strong arms in a hug, slaps on the back so hard he’s winded. Bright eyes smiling at victory, a sense of pride from a congratulations call genuine in it’s regal and inspiring tone. A quirk of a smile, enough to know it’s more than that, so much more and loud, clashing cheering, hugs that are too much in their intensity. 

And a void. That reaching, pulsing feeling when he’s hit the wall again, that barrier keeping his mind locked down, but he wants it, this time he’ll grasp it, this time-

Abruptly Keith coughs so hard his head pounds, his lungs over capacity as if they’re trying to push something out of them. He covers his mouth until it subsides, then draws back to look at it. It’s a little wet from saliva, which is unpleasant, but there’s nothing there. Which is good, although he doesn’t know why he thought something would be, expected a part of himself to release with such a hacking cough. 

In the time, Shiro’s stood to be by his side, hovering worriedly. Keith offers him a smile although it trembles slightly, the aftershocks of the cough attack still haunting him. He hates that look on Shiro’s face though, the fear and helplessness that shouldn’t belong in an older brother's expression. So he clears his throat, sits back, and tries to look as comfortable as possible. 

The day passes quickly after that. A few more tests in the afternoon, assurance from his doctor that they will have the results tomorrow, and Krolia is able to visit. Shiro leaves reluctantly at the end of visitor hours, but by this point, Keith is exhausted. He’s been ill for almost two weeks and awake fully for a day, so it takes its toll. 

He can feel sleep pushing at his mind as he settles back in the hospital bed, all too familiar sounds surrounding him. He’s been in too many hospitals over the years, starting as a child getting into too many fights with people who hit far harder than he, and transferring into a soldier, being hurt part of the cause. He knows he’ll sleep, he’s used to this world of noise. 

But his mind is still stuck on those few points from today. There seems to be a specific blank in his memory, specific points where it’s far harder for him to recall his past. Although he’s tired, he tries once more, deciding to go right back, as far as he can. 

Stargazing with his dad. A good memory, once tinged with pain but now a fond recollection of someone he loved and misses so dearly. He must have been around seven years old, therefore it’s more snippets and fragments; the softness of the bright red blanket he was cuddled up in, the way shadows reflected on his father’s smile by firelight, the grandeur of the stars igniting the sky, the smell of home and safety as he rested against his father, small hands tracing constellations. 

So the distant past is still safe, as is the present if the clarity of his last mission is anything to judge by. He considers trying to think of other memories from recent times, but his head is starting to ache with the need for rest and recuperation. 

Even as he does so, he knows with a dark sparkle of fear that there is something missing. A blankness in the middle, something that scores out and drives away connections made in years after finding Shiro to standing on that Volcano world. 

He’s missing memories of Voltron. Or at least, something to do with Voltron. And although they assured him it’s all a side effect of medication, he cannot fathom why just these specific memories would be harder to reach. He lets go, though. Perhaps it will take time; it’s been less than a day. He tries to allow that thought to comfort him as he slips into sleep. 

But a deeper call resonates within, as if warning him it’s not that simple. 

* * *

He dreams of sunsets, this time sure of the fall of their personal star; an orange glow from up high, casting a golden light on all things. Then a second moment of its descent, a deeper dark from pinks to mauve as he sits once again, but low now, on bare but shallow plain. 

He watches his own feet. Boots, part of his uniform, they melt into the dark earth. As he watches, tiny shoots spring forth, up and then back down again, the life cycle of a plant fast forwarded. They multiply, spring up, fall back, tiny little pieces of green, leaving fragments of themselves behind. He watches the constant cycle for heartbeats, and as it continues, the ground becomes awash in a tiny white covering. 

He’s suddenly standing, the world tilting into something less dreamlike, more solid. He bends down so the strange formation of brightness among the ash is clear. 

Petals. 

_“Sometimes though, I think it will never be right.”_

The sea of petals shimmers, background falling away. Strangely, they shift, forming a curling snake of flowers, cycling towards him slowly. They bleed red as they approach, the whiteness being swallowed slowly, painfully, until they are just drops of blood on the wind, careering closer and closer. 

The dream fades with the brush of petals against his face, and he falls with them, downwards and away to a deeper slumber.

* * *

His mother’s hugs are strong, and on a scale of one to ten, her grip is high into the nines. A category reserved for when he’s done something particularly death defying that preys on her nerves. They may be soldiers, ex-resistance fighters, but he knows seeing your child in so much pain is not something easily dealt with. 

“How are you feeling?” she says as she settles down in what he’s thought of as Shiro’s chair until now. 

“Good, actually,” he says, meaning it. A night’s sleep has done wonders, the ache in his chest dull and his throat feeling fine. He’s been without the mask all morning and his voice is back to normal range. All healing nicely. 

Krolia studies him for a moment, her gaze taking in each part of him at a time, trying to calculate how much of the truth he’s telling. She knows he hates hospitals; he’d broken his collarbone last year after a particularly badly timed jump and was adamant about being released only a few hours later. The hospital had insisted he needed two days rest, Krolia siding with them and Keith determined to ignore it. He did leave though, it took longer than he hoped and essentially had to stage a breakout with-

He suddenly starts coughing right on cue, cursing himself internally that it hits just as he insists he’s fine. Wordlessly, his mother passes over the half finished glass of water next to him. 

“Really, I am so much better. Random coughing fits aside. It’s not even as bad as a cold,” he says, feeling like a child under her judgement. 

“You do seem to be recovering quickly. Do you remember why you’re here though? Shiro said your memory is coming back, but it’s not all there yet.” 

Keith inhales, feeling his lungs expand with only minimal constriction. His eyes catch onto the array of bouquets, and, strangely, a cactus on the windowsill. It’s quite a lot of flowers and a fair amount of cards; it’s probably why he’s constantly dreaming of flowers. 

That thought brings him back to the moment, and he nods at his mother.

“I remember our mission. To...He...Hep...the planet with the still active volcano,” he finishes, a little annoyed he can’t remember the name. 

She smiles though. “Heptalazena. Yes, we were there for only a few days. You came here just over a week after. I actually have some of the translated documents from there. Pidge has been helping us with them. You can take a look if you want.” 

Keith nods absently, and Krolia smiles before rummaging in her bag, handing over a memory stick. He frowns to himself while she does this. A week missing, time without an answer. His gaze flickers as he searches his own thoughts, allowing them to spiral. Uncannily familiar nausea. Sleeping. Staring at a message. A bathroom. Hand over his mouth as he feels something inside him break, the fear rising like the tide as he stares at his own hands covered in-

Void. He shakes his head as his mind shuts down that train of thought. He doesn’t think he wants to know, doesn’t think he’s ready for some reason. 

The moment is broken by the doctor returning, all smiles and screen at the ready. 

“It looks as if you’re improving day by day. We have your test results to go over. It’s all looking positive though,” she says before placing the screen down and allowing a series of charts to beam upwards. She manipulates them into different sizes, the first being a chest x-ray. 

Keith isn’t an expert in medicine but it seems…normal. Apparently his expression seems to give that away as the doctor smiles. 

“All looking good. It’s quite a contrast to two weeks ago.” 

She manipulates the images, shifting them two and fro until a different x ray is brought to the forefront. Keith just stares it. Blinks a few times, wondering if by clearing his eyes a different image will display. 

He’s not sure if what he’s seeing is possible. For the scan seems to show twisting coils snaking their way around his lungs, bursting through and covering most of the surface. They join together, dark knots breaking up the pattern of spindly snakes, curving all over. It’s no wonder his chest aches with all this knotting him up. 

“They look like...vines,” he says, trying to think of the best description. 

The doctor nods. “Yes, that’s actually very accurate.” 

She looks towards Krolia, who nods once. Keith frowns at his mother; it’s a strange exchange, but she turns to him quickly. 

“Your condition was unique. So unique that there’s no record on any planet we’ve travelled to, so it’s now a matter of interest to both The Blade and medical research. We’re working on this together,” she says in explanation. 

The doctor then resumes speaking. “You had an infection... or, well, infestation I believe is the correct word, of some kind of flora within your lungs and throat. It advanced rapidly. This was the first scan we took of you. No one has ever seen anything quite like it, nor knew how to treat it. It makes no scientific sense, and, as you can imagine and probably feel, did quite a lot of damage to you.” 

Keith gapes, trying to comprehend what they are saying. 

“Are you telling me there were flowers growing out of my lungs?” he says, bewildered. 

“Yes. Quite literally. But the good news is we were able to operate, and now your lungs are clear. There seems to be no trace of anything left, we removed it all.”

Keith does feel relief at that, having seen how covered his lungs had been before the procedure. He’s seen some bizarre things in his time, but flowers growing inside of him is probably up there with the weirdest. He’s quite glad that for now he doesn’t recall the feeling. 

“What about the memory loss?” he asks as the thought connects. 

The doctor nods, pulling up another graph. 

“As you can imagine, this was quite an unprecedented condition, so we had to take a few risks. This included the use of an anaesthetic, which isn’t widely used on humans, but does work well for Galra. One of the rare side effects is memory loss, but it’s always temporary. The first time you woke up, you were almost delirious, not making much sense. The second, when you ripped out your IV, you were more aware, and now your memory appears to be returning swiftly. In most cases, gentle reminders and slow integration back to normal routines help return the memories. But you’ll experience a few headaches and confusion over the next month or so,” she says, before shutting down the screen completely. 

“Are you having any particular troubles with your memory?” she asks. 

Keith squirms, not really wanting to admit it, but knowing he must if he wants to heal. 

“It’s hazy in some areas, but I find it hard to remember being part of Voltron,” he says. 

He feels as he says this that it’s a problem, a strike of a chord inside that this should inspire worry, fear, something that rapidly needs fixing before it’s too late. But neither his mother or the doctor appear overly worried. 

“Well, your fellow Paladins have been extremely worried, so perhaps asking one of them to visit of the next few days will help?” the doctor says. 

“I’ll contact them, I know who will be first in line,” Krolia says with a glint of a smile. Keith looks blankly back at her, and the smile fades. He feels guilty, obviously missing something by not remembering any of them but Shiro. And if one of them in particular wants to see him...a close friend? He feels worse knowing he’s missing out on a relationship like that, with no twinge of memory at all. 

“Good. In the meantime, we’ll start physio. You’ve been off your feet for a while, you’ll need some time to rebuild your strength. We’ll evaluate as we go over the next few days, see how your memory and body respond. We’ll keep checking to make sure the infection doesn’t return, too. But it’s all going exceptionally well.” 

With that she takes her leave, and Keith is left alone with his mum and his thoughts. 

“You’re really struggling to remember Voltron?” she says, coming closer. 

Keith sighs. “I remember...bits. How it felt to fly Red, then Black. I remember going to the Blades, some of the missions we did. All of our time together is pretty clear. But...yeah. The only person I remember is Shiro, and even then it’s been a strain to remember all the details. I remember him coaching me, helping me. His old arm. I know it’s all in here, but it’s blocked. That medicine’s really done a number on me,” he says, flopping back against his pillows. 

Krolia eyes him for a moment. “That’s a very specific type of memory loss. Perhaps a particular event your mind wants to keep from you? Highly likely with all that happened.” 

Keith just hums in agreement, her thoughts mirroring his own. An event would make sense but why as a result of medication? He would assume if it was a period of time, it would be his most recent memories, but they seem fairly intact. And even though it’s all from his time in Voltron, it’s bits and pieces. 

“Maybe meeting the others will help,” he says, turning to her. 

She smiles, then sweeps some of his hair off his face, a sweet well needed gesture. 

“Can’t hurt, it will be nice to see your friends,” she says. 

He keeps that in mind throughout the day, and decides not to force anything more to the surface, instead focusing on his physio. He trusts the doctor’s words, decides not to give himself further aches and just lets the memories come as they please, at least until he meets these friends from his past. 

And he doesn’t have to wait long. 

He’s reading the records from his mission to Heptalazena two days later, hoping it will join more of the dots together. But they are an odd collection; it seems as if the planet used allegory in all their traditions and laws, making it difficult to decipher without context. They’re confusing and in most cases bleak and terrifying. This morning he’s made his way through _The Hang Man’s Daughter_ , _The Mourning of the Briar Prince_ , and _Raven’s Fool_ before a knock sounds on the door. He looks up and Shiro peers around, smiling. 

“Hey,” Keith greets, putting the tablet down. 

He no longer needs the mask or any intravenous aid, so he’s back to resting in between tests. He still gets tired quickly and his body needs to build up strength, but they’ve given him until the end of the week before they will allow him to be discharged. A good thing, too, as he’s starting to get the inklings of claustrophobia, too trapped in this muted coloured world. 

“Got some people here to see you, if you’re feeling up for it?” he says. 

Keith nods, a little thrill of anticipation flooding through as Shiro looks behind him, says something quietly, then walks through the door. 

Behind him follows a woman. She’s tall with long silver hair tied high on her head, bright blue eyes glowing with the smile on her face. She’s dressed formally, far more so than Keith believes he merits, in a white and blue gown that swishes softly as she enters the room. Two pink crescent marks glow softly against her dark skin, a look he vaguely recognises. 

_Altean_ , his mind supplies, a few snapshots of others with similar markings flying to mind. But he still cannot recall her name, an annoyance he tries to bear with as she looks so relieved and happy to see him. 

She’s not alone, though. A second set of footsteps follow and a man enters behind, a smile on his face as well, but a cautious one, unsure of what he will face. Keith has the absurd urge to tell him he’s feeling okay, to reassure this man, whoever he is, that all is well. His adverse feelings to the tentative smile are too strong for what they are, but they won’t cease. 

The man is wearing a uniform, one which Keith instantly recognises from his childhood as a Garrison Officer. High ranking, too, counting the stripes on his shoulders. His skin is tanned, hair dark and soft looking, another stray thought Keith should probably hold back but can’t. His eyes are bright blue, but it’s not the colour that’s enchanting. It’s the depth of the light, the shimmer and flicker of adventure mixed with calmness, of coming home but the knowledge you’ll speed off into the night again. 

Both of them are beautiful. They look good together. 

And with that thought his throat convulses. He gags first before he starts coughing, a ruptured heaving sound, his whole body bending double to deal with the ferocity of the action. It’s the harshest one so far, a familiar pain sweeping through his chest and throat as he deals with the spasms. Thankfully it’s only for a moment or two, but it still leaves him shaken. 

A glass of water appears in his eyeline and he looks up to see the man holding it carefully, worry plain in his face. Keith takes the glass, thankful his hand is steady, and drinks as much as he can take. 

“Thank you,” he manages once half the glass is gone, “Sorry, that...happens sometimes. It’s getting better,” he says, trying to wipe the concerned look from the man’s face. 

It doesn’t work though, for he just frowns, eyebrow raising. “Better? That doesn’t sound better to me, that’s a pretty serious cough you’ve got there, buddy,” 

And his voice is so familiar Keith wants to sink into it, would ask him to read the most boring novels to him if only he’d keep speaking. 

“Yes, that does sound serious. Are you sure you’re getting better?” the woman asks, and although her voice is familiar, too, it doesn’t have quite the same effect. 

Keith nods though, setting the now empty glass back on the table. “Yes, I’m sure. Just coughing and a bit of memory loss,” he says. 

He can see Shiro’s doubting expression from behind the new visitors. Of course, he’s seen Keith’s coughing, knows that one was particularly bad. But he turns away from his brother when the man speaks again. 

“Yeah, Shiro said you...don’t remember us.” 

The words tail off quietly and an awkward silence descends. Keith desperately wishes he could deny it, is thrown off by how deeply he is affected by the way the words slip out in that descending tone. But he can’t. As much as he’s thrown by this person and his unconscious reactions to them, he doesn’t know them. 

“Um...yeah. I don’t. That’s true,” he mutters, feeling awkward. 

However, the woman just claps her hands, startling him to look up. She seems determined, the smile on her face not false but a genuine positive force. 

“Then we’re here to help, Keith. That’s what friends do, and we’ve been so worried about you. It must be quite unnerving having blanks in your memory. My name is Allura, and we’ve known each other for quite a while; since you first became a Paladin.” 

He feels a memory uncurl, a wisp of the past reaching carefully through the barrier of his mind. Fuzzy then sharper, as if with one step the past comes tumbling through. Allura falling from a chamber, his whole body in shock as she does. Her fierce orders through his ears as he flies fast and hard through space. Calling her name, directing her in battle as they form together, all pieces broken until they are whole. 

“You’re… Princess of Altea. You were the Blue Paladin?” he says as a question although as the words come to life he feels their truth. 

She laughs a spark of delight and the man beside her grins along too. Shiro looks pleased from his place behind and Keith is amazed at how quickly the knowledge returns with so little prompting. He thinks again, sees if he can continue on this train of thought. 

“We held a conference a few months ago. On… New Altea? The one on technological advancement,” he clarifies as Allura nods her head. 

“We did, more as figureheads of The Blade and New Altea rather than experts. That was the last time I saw you in person, it was a wonderful week.” 

It made sense the memory was clearer if it was recent, as with all of his memories so far. He could identify snapshots of her as part of Voltron, but it was a strain on his mind. 

“My turn, quit hogging Keith, ‘Lura!” says a voice and Allura rolls her eyes as the man sits forward eagerly. 

“I’m Lance, Lance McClain. We were in Voltron together, but I knew you before that. And obviously after that. As in, I know you now. It’s why I’m here, ya know, helping you, well we both are and Shiro is I’m sure, he’s always helpf-”

“I think you can stop now,” Allura says softly, trying not to laugh as Lance’s face turns red. 

But Keith doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t crack a smile or manage to do anything other than stare, blink and try to get his mind in gear. 

Because he doesn’t remember him. 

This man who makes him feel things, makes his heart stutter to a halt with his eyes and presence, who makes him desperate to recall his lost memories like no other, whose smiles he wants to bottle up in secret places to look at over and over. 

This man may as well be a stranger for all Keith knows. 

It must be written on his face for Lance’s expression drops as Keith says nothing. 

“You don’t remember...do you?” 

And Keith hates that he has to shake his head, hates himself for the full drop of the light in Lance’s eyes. 

“Classic Keith,” he says, almost under his breath, then looks up, the spark returning somewhat. 

“Wait, is this revenge? Because not the time, man, and also, we really should stop doing this.” 

“Revenge for what?” Keith says, a little affronted that this Lance would think he would pretend to be as injured as he is. 

The comment though doesn’t only bother Lance but the other two. Shiro stands straighter, tense all over, and he knows with that motion that something is deeply wrong. That his worries of the memory loss were not unfounded, the simmering thought not idle. He has lost something crucial, something pivotal that makes him who he is. And for some reason, it is connected to Lance. 

Allura moves her hand to comfort Lance, gripping his fingers in her own. The action is practiced, not only in the flow of movement but in Keith’s memory; he’s seen it a thousand times before. Her action obviously means Lance needs comfort which Keith would like to bring but yet again another coughing fit strikes him. Not as harsh as before but enough to have them standing and rushing about before he can tell them to calm. 

“Perhaps we should head back. That does sound bad and we probably aren’t helping,” Allura says, looking between Lance and Shiro as she does. 

“That might be wise,” Shiro says, as Keith tries to inhale steadily, settle the unbearable crawling in his throat. 

He doesn’t want Lance to go. In general, or like this. He knows something he said struck a chord deeply, a hurt that resonated below skin. He cannot apologize or change it without remembering, but he doesn’t want to sever the ties as they are. 

“You-you can come back,” he says, looking directly at Lance as his voice cracks with the effort of speaking. 

Lance blinks, and then some of the pain falls away. He strides over, places a hand on Keith’s shoulder, steady and warm. His throat spasms at the action, but he pushes it down, refusing to cough again. 

“Of course, Keith. Don’t worry, I’ll come back. I mean, we. We both will,” he says, turning to Allura abruptly with the shift. 

She narrows her eyes at Lance, but then turns it into a smile for Keith. 

“Yes, we will. I’ll see you soon, Keith,” Allura says, dropping a kiss on his cheek before heading to the door. Lance gives him a sort of wave before he, too, departs, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Keith is left alone with Shiro, whose eyes are sad and puzzled, a mirror of Keith’s own feelings. 

“You really don’t remember Lance? Anything at all?” 

“No. I wish I did,” Keith says, sitting back. 

After all, there was nothing else he could say. 

* * *

Keith is discharged as planned, although he’s sure Shiro tried to get them to extend his stay. His body is healing though, surpassing expectations to the point where the pain and failings of before are phantom dreams long forgotten. 

His memory, though, is not as swift. He still has no recollection of Lance, and struggles with the remaining two members of Team Voltron. It’s both comforting and terrifying; it’s not limited to Lance but it is still a very specific type of memory loss. He’s beginning to doubt now it was the medication, but there’s little else he can think of. 

Hunk video called him three days ago, and they spoke for almost an hour. At first he had no recollection of him, but after about 30 minutes, a few fleeting memories surface; Hunk referring to ‘Galra Keith’ as being funny, a memory tinted with a little warmth and mostly confusion. And another far less comforting, of feeling immense guilt and pain, only to have Hunk hug him tightly after an apology. Small moments but clear in themselves. 

His recent memories are clearer day by day. His last mission had been part of a series of trips to planets on the outer edge of a system mostly used as a Galran outpost during the war. The planets there had only been on the edge of the conflict, but had suffered from lack of resources and development, which the Blade is now helping with. He recalls all the missions in that series clearly, along with a tiredness; he’s been away for a while now with few opportunities to stand still. He feels an inkling that there is a reason for this, but that is lost in the void. 

Shiro and Adam are a large part of his recent memories, as to his surprise, is Allura. In the last year he recalls seeing her several times, partly in a work capacity but mostly as friends. Before that, though, there is less of her, and he has to wonder why the sudden change. But at least he’s secure in knowing they are most definitely friends. 

He hasn’t seen Lance since his visit. So it is a surprise when, as he’s packing the last few belongings, he appears at the doorway. 

“They give you a year’s supply of that stuff?” Lance says, motioning towards the huge bottle in his hand. 

Keith is still blinking in surprise at his appearance, then starts at the question. 

“Oh, cough meds. I can’t seem to shift it so they’ve given me this,” he says, packing it away and pulling the zipper shut. 

“Should you really be leaving?” Lance says, expression switching from amusement to concern. It causes a fluttering inside, something trying to flap its wings and escape. His throat tickles and he pushes it down, not wanting to start coughing at the worst moment. 

“I’m fine, Lance. Don’t worry. Why are you here?” 

The words cut the air, a brutal statement despite Keith’s genuine curiosity. Lance’s face falls and Keith finds himself back tracking instantly. 

“That’s not-I...I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he says, trying to salvage this. 

Lance smiles, but it looks a little strained. “Yeah, sorry about that man. I tried to visit earlier but work won’t let me know. You know how they...anyway, err Shiro mentioned he’d need to take the day off to drive you back to your apartment, so I offered instead.” 

Keith rolls his eyes. “You both know I remember how to drive right? And know how to get to my apartment.” 

Lance’s smile becomes more genuine as he steps closer. “Yeah, but you don’t own a car and you can’t take all that on a bike. Plus, you said you wanted me to come back and I thought we could hang out...you know, help with your memory?” 

The last part has Keith nodding so fast his neck aches. 

“Yeah. Sounds good.” 

The sentence has him wincing internally but Lance doesn’t seem to mind, crossing the room and grabbing the bag from Keith’s hands before turning on his heel and spinning from the room. Keith once again is left blinking in Lance’s wake and hurries after him.

“Why are you carrying my bag? Lance, come on, I’m not even sick anymore!” 

He’s not sure why he’s flustered, Lance sauntering ahead with his bag grasped lightly in one hand. The tickle in his throat rises again, but he’s just been discharged and he’s not going to let Lance or any medical staff gain ammunition to rescind the decision. 

“I’m helping, Mullet. Let me be a gentleman,” he says, then winking at Keith over his shoulder. 

He starts coughing. 

Thankfully it’s only short, hardly painful and more like he’s trying to dislodge a piece of stray food than the full hacking burst he’s used to. But Lance’s expression turns calculating, until Keith swallows hard and waves him on. 

“Fine. Go. Be gentlemanly.” 

Lance’s smile rises once more, Keith swallowing against the residual itch in his throat. 

“I am always gentlemanly, my man. You’re just getting the special treatment today.” 

Keith smiles, as it’s all ridiculous words and gestures, silly and sweet in it’s easiness. He slips into it, familiar and warm without any substance, a fact born of more than memory. 

“Oh really? I don’t feel that special, it must not be working.” 

Lance splutters affronted as they leave the building, then guides them towards a dark blue car parked in one of the closest spaces. 

“Well that’s all on you, can’t help it if your taste is bad. Now, are you hungry?” 

Keith nods, stomach informing him at the question that yes, in fact, he is. Lance opens the car with a click and they both slide in. 

“Great, Do you remember the cafe by your place?” 

Keith frowns as the car starts up, wracking his memory. It doesn’t flood easily so he pushes, tugs on threads to try and enable something to unravel. All he manages are a few feelings; calmness, belonging and a hint of shared laughter. Nothing solid comes to mind though, so he shakes his head. 

Lance sighs. “Okay, well you only moved four months ago, so maybe that’s why. It’s great though, and we went there a lot before your last few missions. Could help you remember things?” 

It does sound like a solid plan, and he knows his apartment is only a short drive from here. They settle into silence for a few minutes, Keith unsure what to say. Thankfully, it’s Lance that breaks it. 

“So Hunk said you also struggled remembering him.” 

Keith nods. “Yeah, so it’s not just you. I don’t really remember Pidge either, but they said they’d call later this week.” 

Lance flashes him a smile before turning to the road. He does seem lighter at the admittance, a little less miserable than with the initial revelation. Perhaps comforted that he’s not the only friend Keith doesn’t remember, that it’s not just him who is a blank. 

Lance parks by Keith’s place, and the two walk to the cafe. It’s only a few minutes away, along a small side street full of quaint shops and buildings. 

“We discovered this just after you moved in. We had way too many drinks the night before, needed a caffeine hit,” Lance says with a laugh as they arrive, the memory obviously fond. 

Keith wishes he remembers it, an ache flooding into his chest at the sadness. Lance opens the door of the cafe and holds it for him to pass, Keith having to clear his throat to stave off an oncoming cough. 

It’s small inside, full of wooden benches and scratched tables of varying muted colours. Chalkboard signs in multiple colours display coffee and cake menus, clipboards with the rest of the food available propped up on each table. Keith aims for the nearest bench, and shuffles down to the end, seating himself on a surprisingly soft dark red cushion. 

Lance makes his way opposite, a look on his face Keith can’t decipher. 

“What?” he says, a little unnerved he cannot read Lance right now. 

“We always sit here. You don’t remember?” 

Keith shakes his head, but it does feel like an echo of the past, a pattern he’s moved into automatically. Lance shrugs, but a small smile stays in place. Keith wonders if he should rejoice in the moment, of making Lance smile like that. It looks good on him, better than the larger smiles, just contentment and enjoyment of simplicity. 

_I wish I could always make you smile like that._

He dissolves into a fit of coughing that has a server bringing him a glass of water instantly, and Lance’s eyes growing wide with concern. Keith looks up when he’s able to and grimaces. 

“I may have...not taken the cough syrup yet.” 

Lance’s concern melts to annoyance, and he rolls his eyes. 

“How are you meant to go back to being a dark and mysterious rebel fighter if you don’t take your meds?” 

“Ex-rebel fighter,” Keith says, sitting back with a little huff. 

“Once a rebel, always a rebel, Mullet.” 

Keith cannot help but laugh at that, the sound ringing in his own ears, the whole room feeling more vibrant and alive as he does. It’s just for a second, but he thinks he remembers another time, a morning with coffee and eggs in this very spot, laughing so hard his face aches while Lance sits in front of him, catching his eye as he tries to control himself. 

He downs more water, keeping himself steady. 

They order lunch, and then just sit for a while. Keith looks around, trying to pluck other memories from fragments in the air. 

“It’s weird you don’t remember Voltron. Or, well, you do remember bits, but nothing about me or Pidge. Allura and Shiro you know though, right?” 

Keith frowns, wondering if he can explain it correctly. 

“Voltron is the main part I don’t remember, yeah. But there are other gaps as well. I don’t remember anything in the week before I was admitted to hospital and even my memories of Allura aren’t that strong. I remember more of seeing her in the past year than of her as the Blue Paladin.” 

“Wow. Weird drug giving you this kind of side effect, they shouldn’t be allowed to be using it. Yeah, you and Allura have hung out a lot lately, so that makes sense. It’s nice, I’m glad you guys do that. After the break up, I think she was worried there would be choosing sides, even though I know none of you would do that. We’re not teenagers. And you guys always did have a lot in common. But ya know, it’s not always rational, these kinda thoughts,” he says with a grin. 

Keith stares, his heart escalating in a way that makes no sense and cannot be a good sign. His mouth sticks as he utters the question:

“Break up?”

“Oh, this was all after the war, so I thought...uh, Allura and I. We broke up, wow...a year and a half ago? Realised we were really meant to be friends it just...didn’t work. At all. Plus long distance didn’t help without a solid foundation. Anyway, took us a while but we’re both back to being friends.”

Keith found himself nodding along, still hearing his heartbeat loud enough that he thinks Lance must hear it too. There’s a small pause as their food arrives, and then Keith clears his throat. 

“Right. It’s nice though, you’re still friends.” 

Lance nods brightly, taking a bite. “Yeah, I missed her. It’s way better like this, though. Was weird, I thought I liked her for so long, but it wasn’t really what I was feeling. It wasn’t right, when we were together.” 

_Sometimes though, I think it will never be right._

Keith swallows down something hard and cloying as that sentence of a dream echoes in a voice like Lance’s. A strangely specific phrases, mixed with petals and falling, all nonsense really. The voice didn’t sound like Lance in his dream though, didn’t sound like anyone. So he pushes through. 

“I see. And...well we found this place, so we’re...good friends?” 

Immediately that sentence sounds wrong. He knows it’s also wrong from the way Lance looks back at him. It’s like his missing something more than memory, some part so vital it cannot be described in words or notions. 

But Lance affixes a smile for Keith, and although he hates it, he lets him. 

“Yeah man, we’re friends. We hung out here a lot, but then you got busy. Blade stuff,” Lance adds. 

‘Blade stuff’ seems loaded, but Keith does recall he has been away for a long time, the missions listing themselves in his mind as he calls for them. Although, he has to admit, it seems excessive, seems as if he’s been deliberately working longer and harder. 

_What was I running from?_

But the void is his only answer, blank and reluctant. 

* * *

“Hey, Keith! How are you doing? Can you get Krolia to send me a sample of that alien parasite that was in your lungs or do you have it? You definitely don’t have memory loss from the drugs.” 

Keith remembers Pidge in one sentence, and finds himself smiling. He sits back in his desk chair and shrugs. 

“I don’t as, strangely enough, I don’t want a sample of some alien parasite which nearly killed me.” 

Pidge rolls their eyes at him. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, how will we know what it was if we don’t get a chance to study it?” 

“How are you still saying that after the pink blob incident?” he says, trying not to laugh. 

Pidge’s eyes glint behind their glasses. “That was entirely Matt’s fault for not following procedures, so he deserved that. So, looks like your memory of me isn’t entirely gone.” 

Keith shakes his head. “No, it’s like with Allura. That happened, what, just over two years ago? I remember most things from then with a few gaps but Voltron is still weirdly hazy.”

“And still nothing on Lance?”

Keith thinks back to the moment in the cafe. “A few flashes but less than anyone else.” 

Pidge’s expression turns serious again. “This isn’t normal memory loss, Keith. I’ve looked at the test subjects from the drug trial and their experience was completely different. I am sure it’s to do with whatever happened to you before the surgery.” 

“How would something in my lungs affect my memory?” Keith says, doubtful. 

“After everything we’ve seen are you really going to ask that? It would be one of the least strange things we’ve experienced.” 

Keith has to agree there, and offers them a smile. “I’ll ask my mum. I’m sure she can at least send test results to you.” 

“Thanks, Keith. I’m glad you’re getting better though. I couldn’t believe it when Lance told me you were so sick.” 

“Lance told you?” He asks, sitting up straighter. For some reason that seems crucial, a fact not worth passing over. 

Pidge pauses for a moment then smiles, softly. “Yeah, Keith. You hadn’t seen each other for a while and he was worried. You guys spent a lot of time together. Shiro told him first, I think.” 

“I don’t remember,” Keith mutters, hating the feeling. He cannot connect these explanations from those around him to the gaps in his memory. Lance was obviously a good friend, perhaps even his best friend, but he has almost no memories of him at all. 

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to help. There’s no medicine that would cause this, so we need to figure out what that plant in your lungs did.” 

“Was there anything in the documents on the planet? I haven’t read all of them, and they’re sort of hard to understand. _The Hang Man’s Daughter_ was particularly brutal,” he days, shuddering at the memory of the story. 

Pidge laughs a little. “I’m pretty sure that’s to do with their justice system, and the lesson of not trying to get out of your penance. I don’t think the torture really happened. And no, although I’ve literally just started the set you’re reading as I passed them onto The Blade first. If anything shows up, I’ll call.”

Keith nods, thanking them. He promises once again to speak to Krolia and make sure Pidge gets as much information as they need. He knows they're looking into the planet in general, still not satisfied with the answers for what occurred. 

He and Pidge chat for a while, before they hang up quickly after something behind them beeps and flashes yellow. Keith just smiles and waves them off, unsure if that means good news or bad. Could be anything with Pidge. 

It’s late by then, not that he has much to go to bed early for. He’s signed off from active duty for another two weeks, then he needs a full assessment before being allowed back on missions. He’s not sure that he'll pass with the years of memory loss.

It’s annoyed him, how clearly blocked the past and his memories of Lance are. He’s been trying to let it all return naturally, but he’s fed up of that now. It’s not helping, his recollections of Lance’s hurt expressions, Shiro’s constant worry and his mother’s hesitancy echoing. He wants to be whole again, wants to go back to whatever his normal was and stop being handled with kid gloves. 

It’s time for action. 

He sits heavily on his bed, closing his eyes. He goes back to that flash of recollection in the cafe, that one solid moment he has. 

Laughter. Ease. He focuses on that second; the feel of Lance’s gaze on his, the shape of his face in the light, the depth of his own mirth mirroring Keith’s. He tries to capture that and pushes, digging through his mind for anything connected and similar, to moments with Lance that he can bring back from the edge. 

His throat starts to ache but he ignores it. Focuses and concentrates even harder. 

A flicker. A moment. A feeling of resigned fear, loss so great and overwhelming he wants to shy away, but he grabs hold and doesn’t let go. As he does, Lance’s voice filters, echoing as if far away, but pulls him back to himself as he does. 

“But now we’re gonna fix it.” 

He wants to cough now but ignores it as he’s finally getting somewhere. He knows this is Voltron. The deep loss that can only be carved out by Shiro's vanishing, the bleakness of the ache only found where his brother is concerned. He’s the unwanted Black Paladin, by himself and the team. But Lance is holding him together with just words and belief. 

His lungs are burning now but Keith feels himself grinning against the pain. It’s one of the first full memories from the void and he cannot stop now, must push on and retrieve what he can. For as he drives forward, another moment forms around him. 

It’s evening, sitting outside the shack which was his home for so long. Lance is next to him, talking already, and he’s watching, the sun on Lance as he faces forward, letting his words flow and run while Keith waits in the downpour. 

“-and I know we’ve just got back but we aren’t Paladins anymore and I think, I think it’s changing. But I don’t know if I should tell her.”

In his mind's eye he feels himself give up a piece of himself. He knows now, watching his past self, that this was a choice he didn’t realise he’d have to make, a position he’s only just realised he’s in. For it’s been brewing and churning but he never thought they’d be here, they’d live this long or stop fighting or that it would persist so deeply after all these years. But he makes a choice, in that very second. 

“You should tell her, Lance. You should tell her how you feel.” 

His chest splits open. 

That’s what it feels like, something breaking and disjointing and Keith opens his eyes at the burning sensations. He’s coughing immediately, wet and deep, almost as bad as when he first woke up in the hospital. He stumbles off the bed, runs to the bathroom and coughs into the sink, groaning and closing his eyes as he feels the inevitable disgusting sensation of bile expelling itself. 

He calms slowly, throat raw once the coughing stops. He gasps and opens his eyes, looking straight into the bathroom mirror. His eyes widen and heart sinks as a trickle of blood flows down towards his chin from the side of his mouth. 

“Oh no,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. He swallows and tastes metal, huffing and looks downwards. 

He freezes. For the sink is a mess of watered blood and...petals. Actual petals, large and soft looking, a hideous juxtaposition as they sit highlighted in his own blood and bile. They’re a deep blue, but stained a shade of purple in place, as if by forming in his insides, the colour becomes muted and tainted by blood. 

He stares at them, wills them away. For this must mean his disease has come back, and his lungs must be filling with vines once more. 

* * *

No one has mentioned the petals. Not in the medical reports, not his mother, nor Shiro. It’s been hours and still they are appearing. Each time he coughs, a flurry spilling from his lungs. It’s closing in on 2AM and he cannot sleep, doesn’t know what to do with this new development. 

His chest and throat hurt. Nothing seems to soothe it, nothing makes it ease. It’s as if that now that it’s begun, it has freedom once more, flowers bursting to life out of his lungs as if they belong. 

But with them come the memories. 

Voltron becomes clearer minute by minute. As the petals spill, he recalls with little effort that first ride into space, holding onto Lance’s chair in Blue, unaware of exactly what they were about to face. Meeting Allura and Coran for the first time, the horror of what the Galra did to Shiro. 

Becoming the Black Paladin storms into his mind like a twist of a bad dream. It clears as time goes by, changing for pride in his team, in what they do together, in stopping a war so disastrous they nearly lose all of reality. The lions were a small price to pay to gain this peace, even though he feels a loss so great in his own mind, it's difficult to explain. 

And all through this, there is Lance. Their competitiveness, their clash in all sense at the start of this journey. How he’s never explained to Lance how much he struggled with it at the time, still reeling from years of living alone, so unused to people that he can barely stand one let alone six others. But they grow, they change. 

And with it something else takes root. A tiny spark, a small bout of light to a seed. It coils and floods, blooms even, and Keith has to laugh at the comparison as he almost chokes on petals himself. 

He fell in love. Gradually, carefully, grains of sand over years piled together until there’s so much desert he wonders how he never noticed this was his home. A natural progression, soft and careful, warm and his. Starting right back at that moment he carried Lance’s broken body in his arms, never having been so worried for another person who wasn’t family until then.

Lance is incredible in his ability to keep them all grounded. His brightness making them all lose themselves in levity when they need it the most. He is warm-hearted, kind, generous, and truly the person who will be there in all things at all times. 

But it was never the right time. Not when he doubted his feelings as they were still so small and he was still learning how to be around people, to patch up his wounds from before and watch the scars fade. He wasn’t ready to face the prospect of love until the war almost ended. And then, Lance had fallen for Allura. He should have seen it coming, really, had known Lance’s feelings for her as they all had.

But more than anything, he wants to see Lance happy in any decision he makes. So he’d let him go; encouraged him to the path which held his happiness, to follow the love he had for someone else. Because what else would he do? That’s how it works, these messy feelings; he didn’t feel animosity, anger, or jealousy. Just the dip of sadness and hope that Lance and Allura found their happiness within one another. 

Still, it was hard to be around them, no matter how much he tried. It’s one thing to wish and long for the happiness of another couple, but another thing to watch their relationship in the open while he still struggled to deal with his feelings for Lance. So, he kept his distance for a while; only, it didn’t last. He remembers now a conversation with Allura, a bar in New Altea, her sipping on something clear yet smoking yellow. 

“I can’t even explain why it didn’t work, it was just...not for us. Maybe the wrong time or maybe we shouldn’t have tried, but we couldn’t make it stick. And I’m not sure if either of us could have changed it. I think...no, I know we’ll be friends again in time. We just need to deal with everything.” 

Petals reign and Keith falls on one side, finding it too much of an effort to remain seated while the memory finishes. 

“Also it’s been almost a year now, why are you still waiting? Do you want my permission?” Allura had said, smirking as she sipped through the smoke. 

He remembers his heart stuttering, and her laugh ringing too loud in his own hearing. 

“You’re both obviously so head over heels with one another, Keith. Why haven’t you asked him out yet?” 

With an almighty gag, something splits in his chest. He thinks for a moment his lungs have collapsed, for something inside must have fractured completely for the pain and the pool of blood that courses slowly out of his already open mouth. He sits up again, arms shaking as he cannot breathe, something is blocking his throat completely. The height gives him aid and out falls a literal branch, twisted and gnarled, covered in half formed blue flowers. 

Keith just stares at the mess on his bed, tears dripping down his face as he does. His throat feels scratched and scalded, and he’s completely in shock that he actually produced something that large from his own chest. 

_I need help._

With that thought, he practically falls off the bed, body unable to hold his own weight. He crawls into the front room of his apartment, grabs his phone from the table and shakily thumbs through the numbers until he finds the right one. He feels terrible, hideous, snaking guilt at what he’s about to do, but he can’t drive like this; he can barely stand. He notices as he raises his hand that there’s a missed call from Pidge, but he has to ignore it for now. 

It rings for what feels like an eternity as he lays shivering on the floor. After all, it’s the middle of the night. But then there’s a click, the call connecting and a gruff voice answers. 

“Keith? What’s wrong?” 

Keith gasps half coughing, forcing noise out of his mouth, trying to translate into words. He inhales again and it sounds wet even to his own ears. There’s a muffled noise on the phone, then his brother’s voice comes again. 

“It’s back, isn’t it? Keith, where are you?” 

“H-home,” he manages then has to move the phone slightly as he splutters onto the floor. 

“We’re coming, hold on Keith. Hold on.” 

Keith nods even though Shiro can’t see it, and clutches the phone to his chest as he waits curled up on the floor. 

* * *

Adam sits with him in the backseat, arm curled around him as he vomits petal and bracken into a bag. Shiro drives like they’re in a high speed chase, but for once, Adam says nothing, just makes soothing noises as they race towards the hospital. 

They’ve called in advance, so as soon as they screech to a stop by the entrance, his doctor comes rushing out. Adam helps him to his feet, practically carrying him inside as he continues to cough, petals falling in a morbid procession with each step. 

“This...this is impossible. All those petals? Okay, we need a bed, now!” she yells the last part, and time speeds up as a gurney appears and he’s lowered down and then raced through the hospital. 

Time passes in phases. They give him injections, one that somehow manage to freeze his throat to prevent the coughing and petals, but make it a challenge to speak or breathe with ease. The other must be a sedative, his limbs are heavy-light as he’s subjected to more tests. 

As it happens, his mind wanders. Wanders to a conversation he’s been dreaming about since he woke up, the barrier of his mind finally lifting and allowing him to see. 

Sunset. Why these things always occur in the breaks between day and night he doesn’t know, but he was visiting Lance at his family home, invited to a late birthday celebration. It was just the two of them in this moment though, watching the sun leave for the day. 

“I’m sorry they always ask if you’re seeing anyone. If it helps, I get it too, I just know the tricks for getting them to drop it!” Lance had said with a laugh, tipping his head backwards. 

“Care to teach me? But seriously, it’s fine. I just don’t have much to tell,” he said, although his heart hammered with the knowledge of emotion not yet vocalised. 

“Mm. Same. I know they care, but gotta let these things happen in the right time. With the right person. Sometimes though, I think it will never be right. Or maybe I’m not ready for it to be right. But maybe that’s just...fear. At not doing anything.” 

Lance turns to him then, cheeks red from the sun’s glow, then looks to him. 

“Keith-I. I wanted to...I need…” 

Then Lance stops, shakes his head and sighs deeply. 

“We should go back in.” 

And that’s the crux of it all, Keith realises to himself. _It will never be right,_ the mantra that played in his head leading up to the latest mission. Why he’d been running from Lance for weeks on end. Because Keith was so in love but Lance wasn’t there, and may never be there. So it was time to step back. To stop feeding the flames of his unrequited love and let it die, so perhaps he could move on. 

He recalls, in the week when the parasite must have made its home in his lungs, flicking through Lance’s messages as he stayed home sick. Checking up, asking if he’s free for drinks, all messages responded to vaguely. And one last plea ‘can we talk? It’s important’ sent three days before the flowers incapacitated him. Unanswered, barely read. A denial forever captured. 

He stays in a place between waking and dreaming for a while, tests occurring, hospital staff rushing and speaking around him. When he comes round, he’s back in a hospital room, Shiro and Adam seated beside him. To his surprise, however, Pidge is on the other side, hair a mess and eyes tired. 

“Hey, there you are. How are you feeling?” Adam asks, the first to speak up. 

Keith tries to smile, but his skin feels stiff and frozen. “Not great. Tests?” he says, minimising words. 

All three glance at one another before Shiro speaks. 

“It’s worse than before. They...aren’t sure they can operate again. There's too many...branches and now with the flowers, it’s hard to see. But they’re looking into it.” 

“I think I know what it is, though,” Pidge says suddenly, glaring at Shiro as they speak. 

“Pidge-”

“Keith, did you see flowers on the planet? On Heptalazena?” they say, cutting Shiro off without a glance. 

Keith frowns, then nods. “White. Growing from ash. Went to look...was strange they were growing.” 

Pidge looks to Shiro then, who sits back, expression looking wary. There’s a tension between them, a disagreement of sorts he recognises from the past. But there’s not time for that now, not when his lungs burn and shake with every breath. 

“Tell,” he says, looking at Pidge. 

Pidge nods to him, trying to smile but it wobbles too much. “Okay, did you read _The Mourning of the Briar Prince_ in the documents? The one where the prince cries at the site of white flowers, with no memory of why they have meaning?” 

Keith nods, the strange short prose having meant very little at the time.

“Well, I think that’s part of a longer series of writing. In the one you read, the Prince cries at the sight of white flowers the day after swallowing a cup of wine made of moonlight’s tears, a week aged heart of the southern flying trebor, and laced with a sprinkle of will, which empties him of love lost. I think, that’s code for the cure to whatever it is you have.” 

Adam shakes his head. “That’s quite a reach, Pidge.” 

But Pidge is adamant. “All of the stories are like that, they make no sense out of context, and we have no idea what the actual process they are talking about it is. But the flowers are held by a bride at a wedding the next day, and he doesn’t remember why he’s upset. He forgot he was in love with her.” 

Keth swallows hard, forcing pain in himself as Pidge continues to speak. 

“There are two other stories that are similar. In one, a spirit falls in love with a travelling performer, who is already in love with someone else. The spirit conjures white roses from their throat in a night of mourning and all that is left of them in the sunrise are the flowers. In the final one, an Empress falls in love with a Queen of a rival kingdom. She tries to hide her feelings but whenever they meet, instead of words, she speaks in petals. She writes down her feelings in a letter, and the Queen rides to her kingdom and returns her feelings. As soon as she does, the Empress can speak again.” 

There’s silence in the room as Pidge finishes in a rush, breathing heavily. Keith stares back at them, unblinking. 

“You forgot Lance, Keith,” Shiro says into the silence, and that’s all it takes. He feels the tears fall and tries to blink, tries to make them stop. Adam grips his hand tightly, and he manages to use the other to swipe at them. 

“We obviously don’t know the real process of removal, as otherwise it would be permanent. You wouldn’t remember the...feelings. But I think these are all stories of the three ways this ends. Removal and forgetting the person you love, having the love returned and they vanish or…”

“I die,” Keith says for them, looking straight at the ceiling. 

“Keith, you are not going to die,” Shiro says severely, and Adam grips his hand tighter. But Keith shakes his head, closing his eyes. 

Lance doesn’t love him. He knows that, completely aware of this fact. So his choices are down to two. 

“Find ingredients?” he says, turning to Pidge. 

Pidge’s face falls. They close their eyes once, then they nod slowly. 

“I’ll try. I’ll start looking. Maybe something is left on the planet. If the flowers still grow, then there’s a chance.” 

But they look doubtful. Keith, however, slumps into exhaustion after that. It’s back to the hazy pain of when he woke up the first time, all half formed thoughts mixed with pain, coughing fits that leave blood and petals collating in plastic bowls. 

He doesn’t know what time it is when the door bursts open. Perhaps it’s the sound that drags him to consciousness, perhaps he was already awake. All he knows is that when Lance storms into the room, he’s more present than he has been in hours. 

Keith struggles to sit as Lance crosses the room and paces over to him, breathing heavily. 

“Okay, I-I know this isn’t ideal or probably helpful in anyway, but I have to...”

He trails off, shaking, and then straightens, resolution in his stature and tone. 

“Pidge told me that you’re sick because of...unrequited love which is the weirdest shit ever, these things we find...anyway, I can’t just watch this happen without telling you this.” 

And with that he leans forward, so they’re close, close without touching but enough so that Lance’s expression is all he can see. 

“Keith, I love you. I have for a while, and was scared to say anything. I couldn’t work out how, wasn’t sure if it would ruin everything we had or when would be the right time or place. I tried to tell you after my birthday but the words didn’t come out, and then I didn’t see you for weeks. And this is the worst timing, and you care for someone else so this is shitty of me but, I thought...if you knew someone loved you, maybe it would help you get better. Fight this alien thing, I guess.”

_Keith, I love you._

Lance stops speaking and Keith is breathing heavily, all he can hear that confession, those four words ringing in Lance’s voice. He thinks he’s going to cry, to scream or kiss Lance to stop him from looking so devastated. However, he does none of those things. 

Predictably, he starts coughing. 

Deep and hard, things splitting and cracking audibly in his chest. Lance closes the gap between them, straightening him with his hands, keeping him upright as Keith doubles over at the intensity. 

For then, they explode forth. The petals. 

Handful upon handful, first blue, then, inexplicably, they start to change colour, deepening to mauve then lightening up again until he’s coughing up whole lilac flowers attached with withering decaying bark. Lance makes a strange noise of horror as it occurs, as Keith’s lungs vomit up impossible amounts of flora. 

But Keith isn’t worried. No, for it feels better than any moment so far. It feels like they’re emptying. Through the pain and strain of trying to breathe he notices the bracken is that of dead trees. His lungs are cleaning themselves already, the petals transforming in the wake of Lance’s confession. 

It takes minutes, maybe hours for all Keith knows, until it slows. The bed is covered in petals and Lance is still holding onto him, now more of a hug than a stability. Keith leans into it, and Lance just holds him tighter, his frame trembling. 

“Lance-” he tries, then clears his throat once again. 

Lance moves to stand where he can see Keith, eyes wide and afraid, flitting between him and the mess of the bed. Carefully, Keith reaches out an unsteady hand towards Lance, who quickly captures it in his, making Keith smile. 

“Lance, I love you, too. I...you’re my unrequited love.” 

It’s probably the worst confession ever, with both the circumstance and the method of delivery. But Lance gapes, a small blush highlighting his cheeks as he once again stares between Keith and the flowers. 

“Me...this is all me?” he says and it’s a mixture of horror and awe, which Keith can relate to. So he pulls on Lance’s hand, dragging his attention back up. 

“They even tried removing it. But it didn’t work. As if it’s actually possible to just cut my love for you out of me. I just fell in love with you all over again.” 

And Lance laughs, high and tearful, before leaning down and finally taking his place in Keith’s personal space. His hand moves to Keith’s hair and he’s so gentle, ever so gentle as he tips his nose against Keith’s a tiny bump, not a kiss but closer than anything. 

“On the brink of death and still trying to make me swoon, huh? Wait until you get better, pretty boy. You’ll be swooning so hard on our first date.” 

And Keith feels like he might choke, not on flowers for the first time in weeks but on the overwhelming dizziness of this moment, of their first steps together. 

“I can’t wait,” he whispers, leaning further into Lance, who smiles brightly. 

* * *

Keith ends up needing an operation to remove more of the flowers. Although his lungs do their hardest to cough up the remnants, after three days, they are still clogged and he’s in too much pain. The surgery clears it, but he’s even further out of commission then, the toll on his body too much at that point. 

But he has Lance now. Lance who crowds into the small bed with him when the doctors leave, who lets Keith curl up on his chest and sleep away the injuries. He can’t even speak for two full days, but Lance doesn’t mind, takes messages in taps of a keyboard and reads to him when his eyes are too tired to stay open. 

It’s a slow recovery. He’s discharged after just over three weeks, throat still sore and scars on his chest that will never fade. But Lance walks with him hand in hand, swinging their arms and with a bounce in his step. He takes them back to the cafe, and this time, Keith has all his memories of this place; a place that is so theirs that he cannot help but love it. 

“A nice first date choice,” he says as Lance slides onto the bench next to him, their arms touching. 

“Oh this is not our first date, Mullet. Believe me, you’ll know when it is. You’ll be swooning, remember?” 

“Uh huh,” Keith says with a roll of his eyes but doesn’t tell Lance he already is, swoons at each and every little brush of their hands, every smile his way, every kiss to his cheek. 

They slip into a life together easier than Keith thought would be possible. But it’s that rightness, that acknowledgement of how they fit which makes it easier to put the effort in and create their own happiness. 

The flowers do not go though. 

It’s strange and no one can figure it out. It hits without warning and once again he’s coughing, tiny lilac petals produced one at a time. Sometimes it’s just a few, other times it lasts for days on end. But each and every time, Lance is there, whispering love and comfort into his ear, reminding him of the care and life they have together. 

It passes, it always does. And perhaps it’s because they never used the real cure, perhaps it’s because he’s not a native of that planet. Perhaps it’s just as Keith said, that love cannot just be ripped out and tossed away. It leaves traces of itself, its scars and its triumphs, it’s good and bad pieces. For love is a combination of many things altogether, shared and worked through by both parties. 

And that’s what they do, Keith and Lance together. Pave their way into the future, petals and all.

**Author's Note:**

> For previews and general Klance ramblings, find me on on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EnlacingL/), [Tumblr](http://enlacinglineswrites.tumblr.com) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/enlacinglines/).


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